


Get Your Gun, I'm Done

by shibboleth



Category: Incredible Hulk (2008), Iron Man (Movieverse)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-13
Updated: 2010-09-13
Packaged: 2017-10-11 17:47:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/115027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shibboleth/pseuds/shibboleth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I don't wanna be a superhero/I don't care so don't call me."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Get Your Gun, I'm Done

**Author's Note:**

> Entirely based on "I Don't Wanna Be (A Superhero)" by Roadrunner United, which I guess technically makes it a songfic, huh. Ew. This is strictly movie canon—and there are pretty significant differences between the Tony of the comics and the Tony of the movie. So, basically, disclaimer: I think this is really OOC for his comic book characterization, which I'm only casually familiar with, but in line with how he's been established in the movie franchise as of the first film.

In June, General Thunderbolt Ross touches a glossy picture of the Iron Man Mark IV and his finger leaves a mark. “I like this,” he says. “I like this a lot.”

*

In July, Tony’s drinking in a club called Saint Ive’s. It’s a trendy place that serves liquor in bright colors and narrow glasses, where every room smells like a joint, half the patrons looks like they’re hopped up on ecstasy when really, anyone who made it past the bouncer can afford cocaine. Tony’s in his element, but he’s surprised, because he didn’t think Nick Fury was the clubbing type. Hell, Tony’s not the judging type, anyway, so who’s he to say?

“I didn’t want to put it this way, Tony.” Fury grins. It’s a casual grin, and just like his tone, it’s not a bit malicious. “I own you. I own your company, I own your tech. I own your people.”

Tony smiles back.

Fury raises his martini to his lips. “You don’t walk away from me.”

“Hm.” Tony turns his head, momentarily distracted by the cocktail waitress heading in their direction—she’s strutting and wobbling forward in too-high heels and a face that looks about nineteen years old. Pretty, though. “I didn’t sign up for this,” he notes.

“Kid,” Fury says. His teeth glow violet in the ambient black light, and they look positively eerie when he laughs, as dry and bitter as the drinks he bought them both. “You don’t know  _what_  you signed up for, do you?”

*

In August, Pepper tells him that she’s worried. She doesn’t say why.

*

In August, Tony’s standing in his workshop. He’s not alone.

Bad Religion is playing in the background, the volume is two notches higher than what would make for comfortable conversation, the lights are too bright. Laid out across a table is a dissection of a man made entirely of metal. A failed experiment, a disappointing turn of events, a hit to Stark Industries to the tune of about nine hundred million dollars.

The prototype’s name is George.

“Fury’s right.”

Tony glances up at his friend, then looks back at the broken robot. He wishes he was surprised.

“You’re putting all your eggs in one basket, and that basket’s you.” Rhodey’s watching him, carefully. The man doesn’t talk to him without watching him, anymore, and it’s unnerving and creepy and totally unnecessary. “The military won’t like that, Tony.”

“Fury isn’t the military. He’s not the government, he’s not the law, and he’s not—can you hand me that?”

Rhodey doesn’t look away; he pulls a crescent wrench off the shelf beside them and hands it over. “Tony.”

“Not that, the—oh, forget it, I have one right here.”

“ _Tony_.”

“Rhodey, it’s you.”

“You’re not listening, Tony, you’re—what?”

Tony pulls on a wire and watches the metallic guts come pouring out, all tangled up and snared but falling exactly where he wants them. He loves it when he’s right. “Rhodey, if I’m giving anyone a suit, it’s you.”

*

In August, Nick Fury says, “Tony, you do not hold back on me.”

*

In October, Bruce Banner introduces Tony to a man who’s designed a helmet that lets him control animals. Insects. Something like that. Tony tries to be polite when he asks what possible use that could have, and the man—his name is Hank—shrugs and says, “You’d be surprised.”

* 

In October, only two days later, Bruce Banner knocks the Iron Man suit out of the air as if it had all the weight of a raging bumblebee, and Tony spends the next four days in a S.H.I.E.L.D. ICU. It’s only on the third day that the doctors think he’ll make it.

*

In October, Tony tells Bruce, “It’s not your fault.”

*

In December, Tony’s sitting up in his king sized bed and he’s considering the logistics of killing himself.

It’s an abstract thing. Right, ending his life, that’d be easy enough, anyone can do that. But if he wants to make a clean sweep of it—it’s just an idea, but if he ever wants to—he’ll have to remove the clockwork around his beating heart. He’ll have to smash it  _thoroughly_ , and he’ll need to destroy just enough to make it can’t be repaired and reverse engineered by whatever tem of brilliant minds that’ll end up working on the problem for the next few decades. And then he’ll need to guarantee that one of those brilliant minds isn’t his.

Can they repair that? He doesn’t think so.

But he doesn’t know.

He would have about five minutes.

Tony doesn’t plan on committing suicide, but he’s starting to realize that nothing yet has gone like he planned, and he needs to consider absolutely everything.

He still doesn’t consider Pepper finding him with a stopwatch in one hand and a revolver in the other—he’s not satisfied with the success rate of a firearm, in these circumstances, but he’s planning for eventualities and he could find himself in a pinch—and when she walks into his room without knocking, he’s just moved the gun from his temple to under his chin.

“Tony, I know you said you’d be busy, but if you could just—”

He sighs. “Well, this is awkward.”

She doesn’t stop crying even when he shows her that it isn’t loaded.

*

In February, Rhodey sends him an email that says a lot of things, most of them business, but he sneaks one little bit of sentimentality in at the ends, “So glad you cleaned up your act, Tony. I’m proud of you.” That’s how Tony knows Pepper told him about the gun.

*

In February, Tony shakes hands with the face of the future, a hero in red white and blue. The hero smiles, and says, “The name’s Steve.” He has the strongest grip of anyone Tony’s ever met.

*

In March, Tony’s been escorted to a government owned, super, mega, ultra-top secret hangar, which is guarded by about thirty strapping young men with machine guns standing just outside the steel doors. He’s walking back and forth in front of a silent army of Iron Men, and he’s pretending to inspect them; he doesn’t really have to. Their paint job tells them absolutely nothing, and he doesn’t need to peek under the hood to know that they’re down-to-the-bolts identical to George, the robotic prototype he designed last July and sabotaged in August.

“Impressed?” Nick Fury asks. He’s dressed head to doe in Army issue camouflage and a cigarette’s trailing from his lips. “I sure hope you are, this took work.”

“You have to change the color scheme.” Tony waves at the motionless soldiers. They’re waiting for orders, standing still like a shining Terracotta army. The United States military toppled a country in three weeks, once, how long would it take them with a fleet of these? “I hear that red-gold thing’s been done.”

“I told you,” Fury says.

Tony knows where he screwed up, he doesn’t need anyone rubbing it in. “I know I, for one, am impressed by our tax dollars at work,” he says. “Especially since you can’t power them.” He can always feel the arc reactor in his chest, humming ever slightly, but it’s moments like these that it really stands out against the background noise of his lungs and heart.

Fury shrugs, and he appears utterly unconcerned. If it’s an act, it’s a good one. “No, we can’t. Not yet.”

*

In March, J.A.R.V.I.S. says, “You’ll forgive me a little gallows humor, sir, but should I start singing  _Daisy_?” and Tony has to blink hard when he keys in the final overrides.

*

In April, the papers finally learn to tell the difference between Iron Man and War Machine. Tony jokes, “You know, we didn’t have to paint you black. You’re not a Power Ranger.”

*

In May, Tony says, “Sorry, General, but I haven’t heard from Banner in months. You should try, you know, that ant guy.”

*

In September, Tony’s in his kitchen, which he never uses, and he’s washing down a pepperoni and sausage pizza with brandy. It took him almost ten minutes to figure out where he keeps his tumblers and maybe if he’d found them earlier, he wouldn’t have made such a mess of things.

He’s about halfway through the pizza and sick to his stomach when Pepper breezes in at a pace just short of jogging. “I wish you would finish the upgrades on J.A.R.V.I.S., without him it’s impossible to find you sometimes.”

Tony sucks grease off his thumb.

Pepper nods at his meal. “That’s quite a combination.” 

“It tastes terrible.”

“I’m not surprised. Tony, you—” She bites on the corner of her lip, and she looks away. “You broke a glass.” Her eyes move around the room. “More than one.”

“Yeah.” He reaches for another two slices, he folds then over each other and takes a bite. “Don't cut yourself. Oh, by the way, I need you to do—”

“I can’t understand you when you talk with your mouth full.” She takes a slow turn around the room, and Tony doesn’t bother interrupting her journey of discovery. “Tony,” she says, and she has a hand over her chest like she needs the support to stand. “Tony, why did you do this?”

He shrugs. “Do what?”

“You—you broke all your dishes.”

It sounds downright  _silly_ , her saying that so dramatically, so breathlessly, and he can’t help but chuckle a little bit. He glances around the room, and she’s right, there’s broken glass pretty much everywhere, glass and shattered crystal and shards of china—he wanted a  _drink_ , couldn’t find what he was looking for—but that seems distant now. Inconsequential. He can barely remember it, and that’s the truth.

“Tony,” she says.

“Rhodey died this morning,” he answers. “I need you to take care of things.”

Peppers hand closes into a fist near her heart, clutching at her shirt. Every breath she takes is visible in her shoulders.

He takes another long swing of brandy. He’s fighting the urge to throw his tumbler in with the rest, into pieces against a wall—he’s fighting that urge so hard his hands are shaking, but the last thing he wants to do is frighten Pepper.

*

In September, Tony responds to Nick Fury in writing, and the letter only says, “Well, isn’t that funny.”

*

In September, Tony Stark’s arrest makes headlines in every country with a printing press.

*

In September, those same articles begin to quietly evaporate off the front pages, and in just a few days the flow of information stops completely. 

*

In October, Tony’s sitting in a well lit room in an orange suit, and his hands are each separately cuffed to a table. He can see his reflection in the one-way glass and he bitterly notes that he looks terrible in the beard that’s growing in, but the suits here won’t let him have anything sharp.

This is the first time Nick Fury’s come to see him.

Tony practices testing the limits of his chains, as if he actually cares how about his reach, first raising one hand, and then the other. “This is a joke,” he says, conversationally. “You’re joking.”

“I wish I was.”

“You should send Steve back in, he’s a reasonable guy. We play chess, did you know that?”

“Stark.” Fury speaks slowly, as if they’re strangers, as if he’s reading a script off distant cue cards, as if Tony has very special needs. “For the last time, we are merely seeking your  _cooperation_ —”

“Seriously, I have to ask.” Tony leans closer, lowers his voice. “Don’t you feel bad?” He leans back in his chair, expecting to feel smug for the first time in months. Yes, he expected his arrest. He also expects to die, someday—that doesn’t make it part of his plan, it’s simple math.

Fury sets his jaw and says, “No, Tony. I don’t.”

Tony sighs. He raises his left hand, and then his right. He does it again.

“You play the idiot savant pretty well,” Fury remarks. “I hope you’re having fun with it.” He picks up his papers, most of them text dense files that someone took a Sharpie to, like you’d see in an episode of the X-Files. Some of them are glossy photographs of death machines. There’s a grainy image of a pretty redhead. “We’re going to find her, Stark. We’re going to find her soon.”

“Who.” Tony’s response is robotic. He doesn’t have the energy to express it like a question.

“Like I said,” Fury says. “Have fun with that.”

*

In November, the doctor doesn’t look Tony in the eye when she asks him to roll up his sleeve.

*

In November, Tony loses at chess. It’s the first time. 

*

In December—not the next December, the one after that—they let him go.

*

In December, the same December, Tony sees Pepper for the first time in more than a year—she’d tried to see him in prison, but he’d always refused her visits. She’s there in the Starbucks before him, sitting with her back to the door—Tony doesn't need to see her face, he recognizes her by the trim gray suit and how carefully she’s blow-dried her hair.

He doesn’t have long to admire the view, because she jerks around as if she sensed his stare.

Pepper scrambles to her feet, nearly knocking her chair over behind her, and that’s kind of an interesting contrast with how deliberately and calmly she crosses the room. She stops an arm’s length away from him, and she takes a deep breath. “Tony, they’re going to expect—”

“I don’t care,” Tony says.

Behind them, all around them, customers are still passing back and forth. If any of them think they’re walking by something significant, none of them show it on their faces.

Pepper starts to say something, stops. Then, “Are you okay?” she asks, quietly.

“Fine,” he lies. “Yeah, sure, I can hardly write my name, nowadays, but I got off easy.” That part’s true.

She frowns. “I don’t…”

Tony holds up his right hand and it’s shaking. Only slightly. It’s almost imperceptible, but it’s a lot more obvious when he tries to hold a pen, or operate a car. He drops his hand and he shrugs. 

“What’s that?”

“It’s a problem. They call it a consequence.”

Tony sees the girl over Pepper’s shoulder, near the back of the coffee shop. She’s a pretty brunette with a young face, but she’s not as young as she looks. He focuses on her, long enough for her to know that he sees her see him, then he looks back at Pepper. She’s talking, and he’s not listening.

“You’re still my assistant, right?” he asks, interrupting her. “Officially, I mean.”

She gives him a funny look, and she nods.

“Okay. Come on, we have work to do.”

*

In January, Tony has to go to Nebraska. Hartington,  _Nebraska_. The lockbox is under the name John Elias and they only ask for one form of ID. He’s half sure, almost positive that it won’t work. 

Maybe it’s because he shaved his beard, but no one even recognizes him.

*

In February, Tony tells Bruce, “Sorry I’m late, I killed my day planner a couple years back and haven’t really been on track since.” Bruce chuckles for a few seconds until he realizes that Tony isn’t.

*

In February, Betty Ross is beautiful, and when Tony slides into the passenger seat of her car and smiles sideways at her, she blushes. “Well,” he says, “I have to say, I didn’t expect an escort as pretty as you.” He doesn’t bother toning it down, because for God’s sake, he’s been in  _prison_.

“I have clearance,” she says, and she says it like an apology. 

So he smirks and says, “Don’t worry, I won’t hold it against you.”

They drive in silence for a while, for a very long while, she pulls onto the freeway and off of it again, occasionally referring to the directions provided by her GPS. He knows who she is, he knows who her father is. But Bruce said she could be trusted—trusted  _absolutely_ , those were his words—and if Tony’s been missing anything, lately, it’s that. So he goes with it.

When she speaks, it’s sudden, and it surprises him. “I’ve been trying to help you. We both have.”

He knows who she means when he says we, so he doesn’t ask. “I appreciate it,” he says. “But you don’t have to.”

Betty shakes her head. “Bruce and I both had doctorates in relevant fields, this is what we study. And what S.H.I.E.L.D. did to you, you’ll need—”

“Right. Bruce has his own problems.” Tony hasn’t talked about that with anybody, and sure, Betty Ross is beautiful, but he’s not exactly in the mood to start now. “But thanks for your concern, Dr. Ross.”

“You’re welcome, Dr. Stark,” she returns coolly, without missing a beat.

They drive the rest of the way in silence, until finally she slows down and pulls up to the curb, a block away from an intimidating, tall brick building without any windows and without any signs. Even with Betsy’s help and all her clearance, sneaking in is going to be risky.

All this trouble, just to take apart one of his toys.

He wonders who sold the delicate equipment he now needed out of his personal laboratory. It’s probably better not to know, because it’s far easier to hate a faceless entity.

Betty turns in her seat and begins talking quickly. “What they gave you, it’s an inhibiting your motor functions, and … you’ve probably noticed other things. But we—I think it’s reversible.” She stops to bite her lip. Tony has always found that kind of sexy. “You’re still brilliant, Tony, just… You can’t cure yourself the way you are now. It’s not…”

“Right,” Tony says. Again.

“You know all this already,” Betty says, nodding. “They told you.”

“They asked my permission, actually.” His voice isn’t even bitter, anymore. “My options were to cooperate or they’d take it out on…”

Her eyes widen, but she waits for him to finish, and he’s suddenly uncomfortable with her attention. “They don’t want more superheroes than they can handle, that’s all. Listen,” he says, glancing at his watch, reaching for the door. “Right now, I’m all work and no play. If you want to talk about this over a nice glass of wine, say at my place…”

Betty laughs. “I know you get along with my boyfriend,” she says, still smiling. “But I don’t know if you’ll really like him when he’s angry.”

*

In March, Pepper asks Tony if he thinks this is what Jim really would’ve wanted. Tony raises both eyebrows and says, “Who?”

*

In March, the same month, the same day, Tony explains to Pepper that forgetting has nothing to do with it. He hasn’t heard anyone use Jim Rhodes' first name in a long time.

That’s all.

*

In April, Tony tosses Rhodey’s arc reactor onto General Ross’ desk; it lands like a rock and rolls in a slow circle, like a top. “Explain this to me,” he says. “Explain this to me now.”

Ross pauses, then he puts his pen down carefully and gives Tony a blank, dismissive look. He folds his hands and rests them on his desk. “Stark. This had better be worth my time.”

Tony knows it’s not. Not worth it.

He wants the climax to come right here, right now, he wants justice served, he wants a heated argument and hell, if he’s going all Hollywood he might as well throw in a fistfight, too. He wants flashy bright lights and handcuffs and a handful of reporters and someone congratulating him every step of the way.

“You killed my friend,” Tony says, very calmly. “For no good reason.”

And with that, his shoulders slump a little, and when he blinks his eyes drift shut for a moment too long.

Tony’s so fucking tired.

*

In April—directly after men in bullet proof vests and carrying machine guns escort him out of the government building—Tony spends two days in prison. It’s a lot less time than he expects, but that doesn’t stop him from passing the time wondering frequently, and loudly, just how much of his life he’s going to pass in a cell.

*

In April, the tech who brings Tony the dismantled arc reactor in a cardboard box is an idiot. He just doesn’t understand, and finally Tony gives up, leans forward and shouts, “It’s  _broken_. I  _broke_  it. It will  _never work again_.”

*

In May, they give him the pieces of the reactor, and Tony makes sure the job’s done right, this time—he burns them himself.

*

In May, Tony gets a hand delivered letter along with specific, threatening instructions to destroy the contents after reading. The note itself is infuriatingly short, and it only contains one important sentence: “—Col. Rhodes’ death was a tragic and unintended consequence of Project  **[CENSORED]** , now indefinitely discontinued as per direct orders from General  **[CENSORED]**. Thank you for your patience and understanding regarding—“

Tony finds himself saying that part out loud: “ _Thank you for your patience_.”

The letter, Tony keeps. He doesn’t want it, he’s only being contrary.

*

It’s July, two years later, inside the dark bar of a snazzy hotel, and Tony asks Nick Fury why they didn’t take his arc reactor right out of his chest. 

“This is America, Tony,” Fury says, surprised. “We don’t murder people.”

*

It’s July, it’s the same night, and Nick Fury asks Tony if he ever thinks about putting the suit on again.

“Fuck you,” Tony answers, and he finishes his drink.

*


End file.
